Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (112 page)

He
had
walked
perhaps
half
a
mile
on
what
certainly
seemed
some sort
of
a
track,
without
passing
a
house
or
any
living
person,
when a
sound,
which
he
associated
with
civilization,
smote
upon
his
ears. It
was
the
low,
mournful
howling
of
a
dog.

The
howling
was
taken
up
by
other
dogs,
he
could
not
guess
how many,
but
the
effect
of
it
was
weird
and
infinitely
mournful.
As nearly
as
he
was
able
to
locate
them,
the
sounds
came
from
the direction
of
the
forest.

Vaguely
he
wondered
whose
dogs
they
were
and
why
they
were howling.
Perhaps
they
were
cold,
poor
devils.
People
in
less
advanced times
were
very
likely
cruel
to
their
dogs.
They
left
them
out,
even on
such
nights
as
this.

He
trudged
on,
listening
to
this
intermittent
howling
and
baying, which
became
more
frequent
and
sounded
nearer.
Vague
fears
began to
assail
him.
He
was
not
afraid
of
dogs
which
had
been
made domestic
pets—the
Fidos
and
Rovers
and
Peters
of
the
happy
twentieth
century.
But
suppose
these
were
savage—wild?

He
halted
doubtfully,
and
as
he
halted
he
saw
some
of
them
for the
first
time.
There
were
six
of
them,
and
they
were
streaming across
the
snowfield
from
the
direction
of
the
forest,
one
slightly in
advance
of
the
others.
They
were
barking
and
squealing,
like hounds
hot
upon
a
scent.
Their
leader,
a
lean
grey
brute,
raised
his head,
and
uttered
a
loud
yelp,
and
as
he
did
so
Trimmer
saw
that
his eyes
were
luminous
and
burning,
like
two
red
coals.

In
response
to
the
creature's
yelp
the
whole
fringe
of
the
wood became
alive
with
his
kind.
The
darkness
was
specked
with
vicious luminous
eyes.
Over
the
snowfield
came
the
pack,
as
a
black
cloud crosses
the
sky.
Trimmer
uttered
a
little
sharp
cry
of
fear.

"Wolves!"
he
gasped
aloud.
"Wolves!"

As
he
turned
and
ran
an
echo
of
an
old
history
lesson
came
back to
his
mind.
He
remembered
having
been
told
that
hundreds
and hundreds
of
years
ago
the
English
forests
were
haunted
by
wolves, which,
maddened
by
hunger
in
the
winter-time,
would
attack
and kill
whosoever
ventured
abroad.
He
ran
like
a
blind
man,
stumbling and
slipping,
with
horror
and
despair
storming
at
his
heart.

In
the
distance
he
could
see
his
shop,
with
the
safe
warm
light gleaming
like
a
beacon,
but
he
knew
that
he
could
never
reach
it. The
yelping
of
his
pursuers
grew
nearer
every
moment.
Already
he could
hear
their
scampering
in
the
snow
behind
him.
A
minute
later, and
a
lean
body
shot
past
his
thigh,
just
missing
him.
He
heard
the snap
of
the
brute's
jaws
as
it
rolled
over
in
the
snow.
Then
sharp teeth
gripped
and
tore
the
calf
of
one
of
his
legs,
and
he
heard
amid his
terror
a
worrying
snarl
as
he
tried
to
kick
himself
free.